In the Name of
by Luke Heffner
Summary: Delire Story number 6.: incomplete But I have had some requests for it.


"In the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind, in proxy standing for High Marshal Helbrecht, I pronounce you Marshal Delire Omsheir. Entitling you to the rites and title associated, forever binding you to your charges." The Emperor's Champion, resplendent in his power armor, laid the holly leaf crown on Delire's head. The Champion's armor had been coated with a distinct mixture of paint and tiny bits of metallic dust.

"You have…amassed fleet and resources far beyond most Marshals, and have shown yourself dedicated and successful. But, with this appointment of Marshalhood, comes one thing." The Champion glanced over to Chaplain Grimaldus, who sat on a wide throne, in the shadowy upper section of the hall. The Chaplain nodded slightly.

"We must also chastise you. For unorthodox tactics, I place upon you, the First of the Seven Scars."

Delire had been somewhat prepared for this. The month long exhaustive investigation of his forces by the Chaplain Grimaldus had been excruciating. The Chaplain had gone over every ounce of information Delire had to offer, about the activities that his so called 'Ivory Fleet' had been involved in. Still he was surprised enough to hesitate, before nodding to the Chaplain.

The now Marshal Delire was on his knees before the Emperor's Champion, and viewed by everyone who could pack into the vast auditorium. The high ranking Black Templars that Grimaldus had with his crusade watched on with stoic demeanor. The Marines from the Ivory Fleet were elated and dismayed at the same time, though all were silent.

The Champion removed a small ceremonial knife from the harness on his belt. The keen edge slid against the pressure clips of the sheath with an oiled hiss. With his other hand, he removed a small vial of blue fluid.

With ritual required steadfastness, Delire did not flinch as the point of the razor like blade slid into his skin and scraped against bone. The cut on his forehead, vertical to his nose, extended from hairline to nose-bridge. The Space Marine blood almost instantly coagulated, trying to seal the wound.

Pain flared, and caused Delire's eyes to water, as the blue fluid was worked into the wound by the armored hand of the Emperor's Champion. The ingredients of the liquid were kept secret, as they forcibly made scar tissue, defying the natural abilities of a Marine's body to heal any wound almost seamlessly. The dye in the liquid would turn the wound just as blue, marking him as once chastised by the High Marshal. Such as were the seven holy rebuking scars, having originated with Sigismund, as a permanent sign of a Marine's history.

It was a bittersweet victory that Delire did not indicate weakness, though he was much relieved when the bleeding stopped several minutes later. The blood in his eyes had turned them red.

"I accept the punishment, as is rightfully mine." Delire, with correct observation of ceremony, kissed the blade that had cut him so.

After a small moment, "The stand, Marshal Delire Omsheir, absolved before your Brethren."

As Delire stood, the crowd in the auditorium roared in victory.

Half an hour later, while everyone else was filtering back to their normal places or posts, darkness closed about Delire's consciousness.

He awoke with a start. A dim red light slowly swayed from a chain above him. His hearing could pick up very little, but he held himself perfectly still. His armor seemed undamaged, but his helmet was gone. He could hear several heart beats in the room, and the gradually measured breaths. A gentle splash of water sounded near his head, as he reclined on the unknown platform or table.

Cold water prickled his scalp as a brushing sensation pulled slightly at his hair. It lasted for only a few moments, as the razor smoothed another part of his scalp clean. That must have been what had woke him. He heard the soft splash of water again, as the razor was cleaned.

Sub Principatus of Imperator, nos consecro is locus ut sanctus.

Sub Vox of Imperator, nos consecro illa ornamentum ut sanctus.

Sub Obtutus of Imperator, nos consecro is Adeptus Astartes ut Putus.

The chant startled him, but he did not move. It seemed to come from all about him at once. Delire was very confused, but he could smell the familiar scents of other Black Templars, just below the haze of incense. He heard the slight clinking of chains as some unknown figure shifted slightly.

With intense concentration, Delire gradually identified thirteen separate heart beats in the room. There were a few others there, but all of the artificial type, denoting Servitors. The twin hearts of an Adeptus Astartes was as good as a signature, to the advanced senses of a Marine.

The razor shaved his head with ritualistic slowness, leaving but a priest-like tonsure. Once complete, the unseen figure moved away from Delire's location, and the chant changed to a modified version of the Catechism of Hate.

From somewhere about him, indeterminate before its cessation, a voice told him to stand. Gradually he did so. He body felt slightly fatigued, which was unusual. Though his mind was sharp though confused. He did not feel threatened, but it was obvious once he stood that he had been disarmed.

The single red swaying brazier above his head showed the merest outlines of armored feet of figures just beyond the moving circle of light. The haze of incense obscured any and all details of who they were, but they surrounded him at all cardinal points.

Gradually, another red light appeared. It seemed to come from a distance so vast that Delire's inner ear was suddenly disoriented, his body telling his mind that he was on a vast precipice, inches from falling.

The red beacon slowly wove its way towards him, taking a time that was impossible to tell. It may have been a few minutes, or a few days. It rocked back and forth as if on a line, with a slight tracer showing behind it.

Higher pitched female voices wove themselves into the chant that was continuing all around him. They gave it a very ethereal sound, adding in dimension to the music that was almost as staggering as the edge of the cliff feeling. Indeed it almost seemed as Delire could not see the floor a few feet beyond himself. The closer the red light came, the less the brazier hanging a few feet above Delire's head shone.

He could no longer see or sense the presence of other Marines about him, he was starting to feel very alone and slightly worried. He steeled himself against any fear, for a Marine unarmed is still a force to be reckoned with.

The High Gothic chant changed again, moving into a Litany that Delire was unfamiliar with. The light seemed right before him now, moving back and forth like a lit censor, but illuminating nothing but itself.

Again, a soft voice sounded. It said only, "Follow."

Delire later would not speak even to his most intimate friends of what the darkness held for him. He sometimes would hint at horrible experiences, terrifying images, and possible events of magnitude.

"Potenz hath abstammen hervor ab dein Arbeitskraft , Wir schnell abgerichtet dein Befehl. Rühmen zur Kaiser , Herr über Menschheit.

Die Kind ist Geheilt"

This chant was far from anything Delire had heard in all of his days. The language was not completely unknown, it seemed to have just the merest hint of origins from High Gothic, though the syntax and the words themselves were shadowy in meaning.

The flagstone floor was etched with runic symbols of the Black Templars. But beside those were carved kin insignia of the Space Wolves, and the Salamander chapters of the Adeptus Astartes.

Delire's mind, now brittle and tired from his experience in the darkness, filed this little fact away to be pursued later. The dim light of this room, hopefully his destination, showed the light was indeed a censor. Held in the clasp of a Space Marine, of unknown distinction. His face was obscured by a grey cloth mask, and the armor, though visible by impression, was cloaked in the same type of cloth.

As soon as Delire reached the center of the mosaic design etched into the floor, the lights dimmed blackness, leaving a solitary light above him. It illuminated just the circular stone design and himself.

After a few moments, the chanting came to a stop. Delire shifted uncomfortably, but was simply glad to be out of the haunting darkness that he had worked through to get here. His mind spun as thoughts collided with one another, little sense being able to be made at all.

Footsteps. Three pair, coming from his sides and in front of him crystallized his consciousness. He felt strange and isolated, threatened but content at the same time. It was a curious sensation, that perhaps can not be put adequately put into words.

The circle of light revealed before him, Chaplain Remora, one of Grimaldus's attendants and protégé. His helmet was removed, and the bright red hair that was held in a tonsure braid glinted in the light. Delire had not seen him without his helmet, being covered at all times. He held Delire's attention immediately, blue eyes stern and unwavering in their intensity.

"The Emperor has blessed you, Delire Omsheir. You have come to us though that which would break most Marines, and you have proven yourself worthy before you even met us. Your exploits now range through the Segmentums, talk of many. Your successes outweigh your unorthodox tactics, and your acquisitions speak highly of your foresight."

Delire was taken aback by this information. He did not understand how they could know this. True they had searched high and low through his Fleet, but no significant transmissions had been created by Grimaldus's Fighting Company, and yet they had seemed unsurprised at the tales of his exploits. Still, he was at a loss as to what to say in reply, if such was even necessary.

The Chaplain continued. "We have examined your recordings, we have searched your data bases. We have probed your psyche since you were first initiated, and followed your career in the shadows. For you, and the presence of the Ivory Fleet has been prophesied to appear."

When Delire's worn face must have showed some confusion, Chaplain Remora rose a hand.

"The Oaths of Sigismund created our illustrious chapter, from the Progenitor's orders. We are the bearers of the Four Holy Oaths, set before all Templars. We suffer not the unclean to live, we uphold the honor of the Emperor, we accept any challenge, no matter the odds, and we abhor and destroy witch. This is as you have been taught, yes?"

Delire could only nod, the fatigue must have been showing from his face, as he feared.

Brother Remora regarded him for a moment, but apparently concluded too continue his story. "Abhor the witch. Such was not always the way." The Chaplain gestured with his right hand, and another Marine joined into the circle.

The gold trim along the outsides of the Marine's shoulder pads, contrasting with the deep green paint of his armor, was unmistakable. Part of the Marine's face was gone, replaced with a metal mask, also painted to match his armor. A Salamander chapter Space Marine, and a Promethean Chaplain at that.

His voice was like the hiss of water steaming from a lava vent. "Your chapter did once host Librarians. Psykers of great honor and power within your organization. Until one single campaign, which has been stricken from the records of all, they were prominent figure heads within the Black Templar ranks."

Delire's stomach flipped over as he heard this, his trained responses rebelled against the information. He weakly groped for the bolt pistol that was no longer there.

The Salamander Chaplain eyed him coolly, but continued. "There was a great possession, consisting of almost all of your Chapter's Librarians, during the campaign. Only a handful survived the great turmoil. They had been driven mad by their intimate contact with the Warp, and the depths of the entities found there. They were studied day and night, as their ramblings became worse. No others, but us," the Salamander Chaplain looked over at Remora, "were allowed to study their rantings. It was in the years not too long after the establishment of the Second Founding, that this all occurred."

The Salamander gestured, raising his right hand just as Chaplain Remora had done. The heavy footfalls to Delire's left indicated the response to the gesture, as a massive figure strode into the circle.

The Space Wolf, easily recognizable in his adorned armor, and genetic legacy heralded by long canines and abundance of short bristly hair; laughed as he saw Delire's eyes widen.

"It was about then, yes. We have stood above the rest, in the shadows, watching and waiting since the beginning of the Imperium. Our Order stretches it's history back before the beginning of it all, guided by the Emperor's own hand in millennia past. We, are ancient beyond reckoning, and legion in number." The Lights came on, at this last word. About the chamber held members of all three Space Marine chapters, arranged in familiar accordance instead of strict censure of chapter. They were seated beside each other with familial placing, all looking on the proceedings. There were a few other chapters represented, but it all came on too fast for Delire to imprint on his brain at one time. Delire and the party speaking to him were at the center of the arena style chamber. There was probably fifty or more Marines in the stands. All of whom, were veterans or heroes of their Chapters.

"The Book of Prophesy, states this all. Your destiny is here, among us. Your actions have proven yourself." The Black Templar Chaplain said, and rested a hand on Delire's shoulder. At the unseen signal, a Servitor was admitted to the group, carrying a book within a glowing stasis field. The Salamander Chaplain indicated that Delire should come forth to read it's open pages.

After a few moments of working in his head, Delire could make out simply this.

_Vadum adveho , wielder of Incendia quod Securis. In traba of Ivory is vadum veho , quod per him vadum exsisto Parvulus. A verto cuspis mos is exsisto a rally cuspis pro totus._

It was a couple more moments before Delire could formulate a correct translation from the ancient High Gothic that it was written in.

_Shall come, the wielder of Fire and Axe. On the ships of Ivory he shall ride, and with him shall be the Child. A turning point will this be, a rally point for all._

Delire's pale face must have given away his confusion.

"Worry not, Marshal Delire. Though the prophesies are significantly direct, we have not influenced your choices or your conflicts in any way. You have come here under your own power, under your own decisions. Your destiny is here." Chaplain Remora nodded as he spoke, as a chant rose from the surrounding Marines in the stands.

Kaiser, aufhalten und Anhalt dieses See-. Hochstemmen sein einreichen die Tage über Ärger, und aufklären ihm in Tage über Dunkel.

Die Segenswünsche des Kaiser sein hinauf ihm fürs ruhen seiner Tage.

"I…don't understand." Delire shook his head. The events of the past while suddenly became too much for him to take in. "Emperor save me, I don't understand."

"That's alright. No one ever does. Come, and sit." The Salamander Chaplain gripped Delire's arm, guiding him to a metal chair that had been placed beneath him at the last second. Delire sat down, for a lack of strength to do otherwise. The journey through the darkness and his deepest fears and memories had sapped even a Marine's indemonstrable strength.

A chant rose from the audience, as they all stood in salute.

"Honored und schätzte , Sproß des Kaiser , Anmut uns mit ihrer Weisheit und drückte."  
Again, Delire was able to pick a few clues in the language that hinted at High Gothic. The vowels and inflections were completely different, but some of the word structure was similar to what he had been schooled in.

Dual doors twelve feet tall slammed open with a gust of air. The atmospheric level in the arena changed, causing Delire's ears to pop slightly. Liquid lightning flowed from the dark entrance, trailing on the ground and searching out all that was about with electrical insistence.

A figure grafted to a powered wheelchair gradually rolled into the auditorium. The power showed him the way across the flag stones, and proceeded him in arcing displays.

Delire clenched his fists, trying to bring his mind into the right state for combat. Before him, to his knowledge was a witch, a psyker of unknown origin. The metal seat that he had taken hurt him even through his armor.

As the figure rolled slowly up to Delire's position, his thrashings got worse. The instinctual hatred of all things psychic was engrained in all Black Templars, since very near their founding. It took all three of the Space Marines present on the arena floor to hold Delire down.

The decrepit and withered figure stopped just before Delire's feet. The wasted face and stringy hair combined to give a twisted impression. One of incredible age and one of indominatable secrets. Gradually, the silent elder clad only in white robes, tilted it's head forward towards Delire. The new Marshal's kicking increased, the chair creaking as it strained against the bolts that held it against the flagstone floor. Where anyone would later ask, came the bolts; no one could answer. His struggling did not stop, till the white eyes of the wheel chair trapped figure rolled into the proper positions. Adorned on them, shaped inexorably, were pupils shaped as the Templar Cross.

"Delire Omsheir. Fate has lead you here. You have safe guarded the next Blessed, keeping him in line and showing him dedication. Of that simply, you are welcome into the ranks of the Miles Militis Templum." A slight hiss emanated from Delire's clenched and grinding teeth. That was all the response he chose to speak, his training having been ground almost into his own DNA.

"Witch! Heretic! Mutant, speak not to me. Foul chaos vessel." Delire screamed, his body almost rising from the chair, despite the several space marines holding him down against it.

Many minutes later, it was the Child who soothed Delire's struggles. Both the ancient man and the Child shared several things in common. The most poignant was the oddly shaped eyes, haunting in their intensity.

"Brother, listen to what is said. It is your purpose. My name is Agustus Caesura, and I wish you as my lieutenant. I wish to place upon your shoulders the title of my Commander of Houses. If you are willing." Said the Agustus, looking down into Delire's eyes.

"….." Delire was still floored to know that the Child had had a name all along. "Who are you people?"

All about him laughed. But it was a friendly laugh, not one of scorn or belittlement. The Child, now Agustus, simply replied, "Why my Brother, we are the Knights Templar."

Delire wasn't sure that this helped clear his confusion. "And that is?"

"We are of an ancient society of Man, that survived the Dark Age of Technology. We originated in years beyond measuring, before man had even gotten to the stars. But such was our traditions and our beliefs, that we have survived through all that has sought to destroy us." The Child gestured to the stands about them, that were packed with Marines of the various chapters. "All you see here is not even a tenth of our strength. Our forces are vast, and our histories are grand. Our members range across the Imperium, from the some of the Highest Lords of Terra, to some human Generals and Warmasters."  
Delire pointed, to the husk of a man in the wheel chair. "And who is he?"

The Child nodded. "Fair question. He is the current Blessed. Blessed of the Emperor, changed before birth to the need that fits him. He is over a thousand years of age, but his light is failing now. He has but days to live."

As Agustus spoke, the old man gurgled slightly with an intake of breath.

"Over a thousand? No one can live that long." Delire spoke, which to his knowledge was correct. Even the most stalwart Marine could only expect 600 or so. When not encased in a Dreadnought that is.

"We can. We will live as long as is needed, by His Will. We are closer to the Primarchs than almost any Marines. What sustains us and what creates us is unknown. But we have faith that it is the Emperor's Will, and since the beginning we have always had a Blessed, even before the Emperor revealed himself to man." Agustus once again gripped Delire's attention, those amazing eyes drilling into his mind.

"Will you join us, my friend? Your title, which in our ancient tongue is Obergruppenführer, gives you a lot of authority. I had to fight significantly to move you immediately to that rank, without the use of proper channels. But I believe in you."

"This all too much Brother Agustus. Too much, too fast." Delire paused and closed his eyes. He rubbed his gauntleted hand across his forehead. "So your telling me that there is a secret organization that was created before the Expansion of Man, and that it is still a viable entity? And that you want me to be a part of this? I have come to know you as a Brother Marine Agustus, but this is insanity."

"Commonly the most amazing things are considered insane. Look how Neilus cracked when he was working on the Emperor's Shield. Come, let me show you something." Agustus took Delire's arm and helped him up from the chair. It moved slightly as he rose, causing him to look out of the corner of his eye. There were no bolts holding the chair down, or even the racks for them.

Delire would have commented, but he instead warred with himself not to strike down the ancient Blessed as they passed. The revulsion of the Black Templar training was powerful, almost a physical manifestation.

The two of them left the group, traveling through the large doors at the end of the arena like room. The other two Marines in the base of the arena softly spoke to each other, watching the two with speculative tones.

"Delire, your soul has been on quite a journey. It has seen seven deaths, and innumerable battles. You have been a pirate on the high seas, you have been a successful merchant, owning most of a planet's resources. Your exploits as an explorer during the Expansion of man netted you fame and fortune. And you have been a Space Marine twice. Your last existence we will not speak of, for that will come much later. But all in all, your soul has had a very unique journey. A terribly tiny few ever become Space Marines, and you have done so twice. Frankly, this is what surprised us."

Delire just walked in silence, his exhausted mind trying to work out what he was hearing. Finally, he spoke. "So the Soul moves from life to life?"  
"Not really no. When we die, we do indeed go to join the Emperor. Those he feels are worth their weight, are placed back into life. Its all his Will that induces these unnatural returns of the Soul. He must see something in you." Agustus looked ahead, as they moved down the dim hallway. The only lights were beneath glass covers in the floor. "Most of the humans who die though, never return."

"And you're a Primarch?" Said Delire incredulously.

Agustus tilted his head to the side a little, but kept staring ahead into the dark tunnel. "No. I said we are closer to Primarchs than you. Marines of today have declined much from their original brethren. A Marine that fought in the Heresy would have been at least 6 inches taller, and perhaps another hundred pounds heavier. They were stronger and faster than their descendants today. However, we Blessed are even closer to the Emperor than that. But no where near, I assure you. We live longer, we have better bodily systems and strengths. We are born with certain abilities, one out of a list that has been gathered over the millennia, and one unique."

"Abilities? List?" Delire asked as he looked behind them. The lights on the floor apparently shut off after a few feet behind them, and clicked on perhaps ten yards in front.

"Yes, it is called the Cheshire List. It is a record of all known abilities for a Blessed to have been given. For an example, the Blessed you met in the Arena has the gift of being an A class psyker. I was born with the ability of Instant Precognition." Agustus's face was serene as he spoke.

After a few moments, "Ok, what is your other gift?"

"I calm the Warp. For a small locus around me, usually only a couple of miles, the Warp is without manifestation. Daemons, can not enter into this field, and stay far away from me. They hate the way it tastes to them, as you or I would not drink from foul water, they likewise do not wish to swim in it."

Delire was silent for a while, pondering on this. "But, that Daemon manifested on Carrabus IV, not two hundred yards from our position. Explain."

The child laughed softly, fixing Delire with only the third smile that the now Marshal had ever seen on his face. "That is because I let him. I did not let the other 8 that were trying to get past into the Real, however. I knew it had to happen, that it would be the push you needed to pick up the weapon we found there."

Delire's fist struck Agustus's face at full bore.

The Blessed hardly moved.

And he was still smiling. "Are you done, Brother?"

Delire honestly thought about hitting him again. But as his first punch, even with his fully powered armor, left nothing but a red mark on the young man's face. "..yea. I am sorry Brother." The anger fled from him, as quick as it had came.

"Think nothing of it, it was meant to be."

Delire would come to hate that saying.

Delire was robed in a pilgrim's habit, and an over mantle of brown rough cloth. A rough hemp cord belted at his waist; and a tattered scrip lay over his left shoulder; a water-bottle hung on his right shoulder, and wide brimmed pilgrim's hat shadowed his face. A thick staff of some unknown hardwood was gripped in his right hand. Surprisingly, Theodore had been the one chosen to outfit him, and escort him to the closed entrance of the Preceptory. As soon as they had arrived, Delire feeling vulnerable without his armor, a deep bell tolled three times. At the sound, after a lock was heard being thrown, a Space Wolf marine opened the great doors. He peered through with a suspicious expression. "Eminent Preceptor, a stranger is endeavoring to enter our Preceptory." Said the gruff Space Wolf, still clad in full Marine armor. He spoke over his shoulder, to an unseen person. Delire had been told nothing about his initiation.

A filtered voice spoke in the distance in response. "Be cautious and see who the intruder is."  
The Space Wolf with exceptionally long fangs slowly opened the doors wider. "Who is it that wishes admittance?"  
Theodore spoke, not something that Delire had ever considered normal for the usually taciturn Black Templar marine. "Brother Sagon, a pilgrim on his travels, weary and fatigued, having heard of this Preceptory of Knights Templar, and is anxious to take refuge herein and, if possible, to be admitted to the privileges of the Order."  
Sagon, the marine at the door, replied, "What recommendations does he bring?"  
Theodore responded, "He comes with the Hailing Sign of the Royal Blessed himself."  
"Wait, while I report to the Eminent Preceptor." Sagon disappeared from the doors, to parts unknown. The chamber before Delire was dimly lit, and intelligible of detail.  
From inside the chamber, "Eminent Preceptor, Brother Theodore escorts a pilgrim on his travels, weary and fatigued, having heard of this Preceptory of Knights Templar, and is anxious to take refuge therein and if possible, to be admitted to the privileges of the Order."  
The filtered voice spoke again. "What recommendations does he bring?"  
To which Sagon replied, "He brings with him the Hailing Sign of the Royal Blessed."  
"Let him be admitted with caution."  
An unknown voice shouted, "Brother Knights. To order!" To Delire's ears came the sound of many, many feet shuffling to the floor.  
Delire was led forward into the vast hall, escorted by Theodore and the Space Wolf Sagon. On the center stage, set up much like a judge's seat, sat the Blessed Agustus.

"Welcome in the Name of The Emperor. Rest yourself and partake of ammo and rations." Said Agustus, his face partially obscured by a black hood. Around him in the decks at the walls, stood many figures. Delire's sharp eyes could pick out the distinctive armor of Space Marines.  
Theodore left Delire's side, and returned to him carrying new full Bolter clips, and several compact packages of standard protein broth. It had been retrieved from the table to the West of the Blessed's seat.

When Delire had pocketed the ammunition and the rations as he had been coached to do, the Blessed spoke. "Pilgrim, you have sought refuge in our Preceptory, and desire to be admitted to the privileges of our Order; let me therefore demand of you: on whom in the hour of day do you rely?"  
Delire replied, "On the God-Emperor of Mankind." He had been coached for two days, while fasting and under isolated prayer with meditation.  
_ "_And on whom do you put your trust for eternal salvation?"  
"In the God-Emperor of Mankind"  
"Can you give me any proof of your sincerity?"  
"I am willing to undertake any task, however perilous, which may entitle me to admission under your banner as a Soldier of the Golden Throne.  
"Then, as a proof of your faith, I enjoin you a seven years' pilgrimage. This you will figuratively perform by proceeding seven times round the Preceptory."  
Theodore, in an auditorium voice, signaled a group of Space Marines and one highly decorated and augmented human. "Guard the Sepulcher."

As Delire began his slow circuit of the semi-circular Preceptory, he watched out of the corner of his eye. The Marines took positions, three in front and back, and one on the side. The human, which Delire could now see was a Servitor, took the eastern post. He had only seen one like it in a historic recording. The nuclear device that made up most of the dead man's chest cavity would supposedly detonate upon a correct key word or sequence of events. What ever was in the Sepulcher was not to be trifled with. The gold inlay and designs that coated the waist high box were rendered completely intelligible with age. The two semi prostrated angels on the lid top were chipped, and there was one missing wing from the four that should have been there.

Delire's attention at these various curiosities dulled his movements only slightly. The rod of dark metal flashed just past his head, brushing his hair. Time seemed to slow down as his endorphin and adrenal glands roared into action. The black cloaked figure moved with studied grace, each strike positioned with care and obedience to tradition. Delire's white wood staff clunked dully as he blocked the furry of blows. It was almost instantly obvious that he was not the equal to his unknown person, the skill in which his attacker used his weapon was stunning.

Delire's forehead cracked into the cloth wrapped face of his assailant, making a thick clunking sound, akin to the sound of a watermelon being struck by hand.

The figure stumbled slightly, then stepped back out of Delire's way. The tussle had only lasted for seconds, before Delire's pit-fighting sensibilities took control. Brawling had always been his best fighting techniques, something he had learned from his previous occupation before becoming a Black Templar marine.

Three and a half times around the Preceptory, in the utter silence and attention of all present, one of the six sets of double doors opened with a resounding report. It was the ones nearest to him, and from them strode a short Salamander Marine. As Delire had been told, he moved up to him in response.

He was handed a regular Bolt Pistol, not his own though. The Salamander pointed down the well lit hallway, where a small plumb sized target had been placed.

Delire was taking a bead on the target when he felt the cold steel of another Bolt Pistol rest against the side of his head. He had been told this was coming, so he was not overly surprised, though it was definitely disconcerting.

His first shot shattered the target into tiny fragments. Delire was relieved, but he did not allow much of it to show on his face. The Salamander Marine would have shot him, had he not struck the target within two firings. It was the law.

Without a word, Delire gave the Marine back the bolt pistol. The immediate pressure of perform or die was intense, and his dual hearts were racing at an unhealthy pace. But he still struggled to keep such information under wraps.

Two more physical struggles made up the high points of his symbolic traversing of the Preceptory. The last one had crushed his right cheekbone into his head. Though the blood had quit flowing, the bone shards still from time to time found their way into his mouth.

Blood colored his footsteps, as he made his way back to stand before the raised diesis that the Blessed sat on. Delire not so gracefully kneeled before the cloaked figure, hanging his head in as much exhaustion as penitence.

The Blessed allowed several moments to drag onward in the deep silence that shrouded the large room. Finally, he stood. "O Great Emmanuel, our heavenly Captain, look down, we beseech Thee, on this Preceptory and impart Thy Holy Strength to the Candidate now before Thee, that he may acquit himself as a good and faithful Soldier of the Golden Throne and henceforward with a firm resolution shun all occasions of offending Thee and so become worthy of Thy acceptance and salvation. Ah-men"

A thundering "Ah-men" sounded from the gathered people in the stands.

"Let the Pilgrim now approach the Holy Sepulcher and, kneeling on both knees and placing both hands on the Holy Gospels, enter into a solemn obligation." The Blessed Agustus indicated with his hand, following his statement.

Theodore, who had been standing at floor level, removed the hat and the much battered staff from Delire's form. He gestured for Delire to approach the Sepulcher, which was just to the side and behind of the Blessed's chair.

As he was coached, he placed his hand in a reverent fashion on the Sepulcher, his fingers finding the grooves that had been gently pressed into the softer gold throughout apparent millennia.

The surrounding guards, who had not moved from their posts while he had been on his symbolic journey, retreated to the shadows. All but for one. The Servitor, who was standing directly near Delire's knelt figure, had obviously turned towards him. Perhaps it was a scripted gesture, or perhaps it was a thing remembered by a semi-dead brain held together with wires and gears. Delire could feel the hum of the prepared and armed nuclear device not three feet from his head.

The Blessed spoke from somewhere behind him. "Pilgrim, you will state your Imperial Name and Surname and say after me: I, …, in the name of the Holy, Blessed and Glorious Emperor and in the presence of the Knights here assembled, do hereby en hereon most solemnly promise and swear never to reveal the secrets of a Knight Templar to anyone beneath that rank, unless it to be a Candidate for the same, in a lawful Preceptory of Knights Templar, and then only while acting as a regularly installed Preceptor. I furthermore solemnly promise that I will faithfully defend and maintain faith in the God-Emperor of Mankind and his charges, against all attacks of its enemies; that I will not shed the blood of a Knight Templar in wrath, unless it be in the just wars of the sovereign Emperor himself; but, on the contrary, will defend all Knights Templar, even at the risk of my life, where and whensoever his life or his honor may be in danger; that I will, to the utmost of my power, protect the brothers and connections of Knights Templar and if possible prevent all harm, death or dishonor to which they may be exposed. Lastly, I do most sincerely promise to obedient to the supreme authorities of the Order and other pertinent governing bodies, strictly to observe and maintain the Ancient Laws and Regulations of the Order and the Statutes of the Great Priory of Terra its Provinces Ex-Solar and to answer and obey, so far as lies in my power, all summonses sent to me. To all these points I swear fidelity, without evasion, equivocation or mental reservation of any kind. So help me Emperor and keep me steadfast in this my solemn obligation."

Delire, haltingly repeated the words that the Blessed spoke. The broken rib that was currently drifting about just below his lung diaphragm pained him immensely in his kneeling state. But he was a Marine.  
"You will seal that solemn obligation seven times with your lips in the Holy Gospels." Agustus said, which was dutifully obeyed by Delire.

After the appropriate sealing had been made, the Blessed shouted, "Let the Novice be divested of his Pilgrim's habit and assume the garb of a Soldier of the Golden Throne."

Theodore, his apparently chosen sponsor, reverently divested him of all of the Pilgrim's garb, treating him down to off white cotton pants.

A table was slowly wheeled over to Delire, on which rested old renditions of armor and weapons. Their archaic style was only rivaled by their lack of real protection. But Delire admitted, that he was only seeing it in a now-a-days point of view.

Each part of his new but relatively fragile armor was attached with a quoting from the Librum Imperius, the words of the Emperor ringing loud in the silent but crowded auditorium. When all was placed, from spurs to helmet, the Blessed rose from his seat and threw back his black hood.

"Finally, my Brethren, be strong in the Emperor and in the power of His might. Put on the whole armor of the Ancient Ways, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of Chaos and Xenos. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this universe, against spiritual and infectious wickedness in High Places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armor of the God-Emperor, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day and, having done all, to stand. Weakness begets wound." The Blessed laid both hands upon Delire's shoulders. "Being now armed as a Soldier of the Golden Throne, I must request you to make those professions which were made by our sainted predecessors; you will repeat after me, suiting the action to the words."

"I draw my sword in defense of all Knights Templar." Delirecopied as was requested. "I draw my sword in defense of the near and dear Brothers and connections of Knights Templar. You are now about to proceed on a seven years' warfare and, as you may be stopped and subjected to an examination as a Soldier enrolled under the banner of the Golden Throne, I will entrust you with the sign and word of a Crusader, whereby you will gain confidence and support." Agustus was the only one to speak, as Delire made the motions and positions that had been coached to him, at every juncture of sentence.

"The Sign is given thus." A complicated hand sign rolled easily from the young man's fingers, which Delire was hard pressed to copy. He did so none the less, with much less grace or practiced ease. "You will notice that this Sign is made in form of a Templar Cross. It is called the Sign of the Crusader. This sign should always be given when addressing an Eminent Preceptor, or on entering or leaving a Preceptory. It may be given with the hand on certain occasions when the sword is not drawn."  
Agustus continued. "The word for the sign is Golgotha. Thus prepared, you may prosecute your Crusade, which you will figuratively perform by proceeding seven times round the Preceptory; and be prepared to defend yourself with your sword."

Delire shuddered to his feet. The flimsy and anciently built sword was gripped tightly in his tired hands. The leather handgrip luckily sucked away the moisture from his grip. This was far beyond the point that he had been coached too by Theodore and a few others. He didn't have anything to go on, and no information of the upcoming combat.

Blood gushed from the slash into the meat of his shoulder, in between neck and arm joint. It mingled with the gaping wounds that struggled to seal themselves along his ribcage and thighs. Seven times he had revolved about the Preceptory, fighting off many robed and covered opponents. Though the weapons that all concerned fought with, were ancient in design, humans had always had a good grip on that which would kill another. They were deceptively sturdy, and the armor that he wore was surprisingly protective against the associated combat. No power weapons, no specialized close combat orientation, just human muscle and guts. Sometimes, to bleed about the floor, obscuring the old flagstones.

Theodore spoke again, as soon as Delire had resolutely come to kneeling stance. "Eminent Preceptor, the Novice has zealously prosecuted the campaign up to the present time; is it your pleasure to remit the remainder of the term?"

"Most willingly I will remit the remaining four years of his probation as a Forced Crusader." The Blessed replied. He went further on to say to Delire, "Worthy Brother, now a Novice of our Order, the ceremonies in which you are engaged are calculated to impress your mind deeply and, I trust, will have a lasting influence upon your future character. You were first, as a trial of your faith and accuracy, enjoined to perform a seven years' pilgrimage; it represented the pilgrimage of life, through which we are all passing; we are all weary pilgrims, advancing towards that haven where we shall cease from our labors and be simply on guard for ever. You were then, as a trial of your courage and constancy, directed to perform seven years of warfare. This represented to you the constant warfare with the lying vanities and deceits of this world, in which it is necessary for us always to be engaged. You are now about to perform a year of penance, as a further trial of your humility and of that faith which will conduct you safely over the dark gulf of death and land your enfranchised spirit in the restful abodes of the blessed.  
Let the emblems of life and death which lie before you remind you of the uncertainty of your existence and teach you to be prepared for the closing hour of your mortal life; and rest assured that a firm faith in the truths revealed to us will afford you consolation in the gloomy hours of dissolution and ensure your ineffable and eternal strength in the world to come."

The Blessed rose from his chair, raising his arms above his head. He spoke more out the surrounding crowd in the stands, to Delire. "You are now to undergo one year of penance and mortification; you will therefore take that skull in your left hand and one of consecrated Bolt Pistols from the table, in your right hand. You are commanded to banish all worldly thoughts and mentally while invoking the blessing of The Emperor on your undertaking. Figuratively, you will perform one year of penance by walking slowly round the Preceptory, keeping your eyes fixed on those emblems of life and death.  
Delire, once he had placed the skull in his hand, the empty eye sockets facing him, proceeded to slowly walk about the Preceptory in a circular fashion, and returned to his previous position facing the standing Blessed. All the while, an unseen chorus sung a solemn dirge, called the Penance. He would later find out these facts.  
Agustus reached out and gripped both sides of Delire's face. "You will now repeat after me: May the holy spirit which once inhabited this skull rise up and testify against me, if I ever willfully violate my obligation as a Knight Templar; and may my light be extinguished among men and as I now extinguish this light." The torch that was the single bright light in the room, resting in a carved holding on the Blessed's chair; made a sizzling sound as it guttered and died against the cold flagstone floor. Darkness enshrouded the room, and only the ambient light from door cracks and crannies showed through.

A voice cut through the inky black. The Blessed's inflections were unmistakable. "You are about to retire to mediate upon the ceremony through which you have just passed and to prepare yourself for the honor of Knighthood. And to enable you to gain re-admission, I will entrust you with the Casual Sign and Grand Password of our Order."

Light flooded the auditorium, coming from unseen sources. Everywhere at once, the ambient illumination highlighted every flaw and highpoint of all present. The Blessed made several symbols with his hands, which Delire copied to the best of his enhanced ability. Lastly, Agustus leaned in and whispered the Grand Password in Delire's ear. Either the word itself, or its meaning, were too much for his exhausted and malnourished brain.

Stars danced before his vision, the same intense vacuum formed in his gut, pressing against the lung diaphragm.

"..I serve."

Agustus laid a tender hand upon Delire's sweat soaked head.

"You do."

On the outskirts of the dead system the Imperial ship fleet resided in, an unseen flash of light heralded the Eldar entrance. The webway gate closed without fuss behind them. Farseer Yestus glanced down at the ambient energy levels, deciphering their coded message with the gradual grace indicative to his race. The carefully modulated energy output of the main fleet figure head, the Unrelenting Prayer, spoke as plain as words to the Eldar Farseer.

"Jeheshmeron. That is their destination. Set webway course for the third planet." Jeheshmeron was the ancient Eldar name for the Vulnerum system. The end of the line for Eldar prisoners, the old jail planet had hosted the worst and greatest of the Eldar race.

"Pray we are not late for our appointment." The Farseer whispered under his breath.

"Vulnerum system, third planet. These are but sketchy maps that have been provided to us by the Ordos Mallus. It is Chaos controlled, and heavily fortified. In ancient times, it was a relic and xenos Archeotech world. Complete with sanctuaries and associated defenses, it was taken by Chaos forces associated with Khorne and Tzeentch quite long ago. By no means is it an easy target, but it must be done."

The Salamander Marine who was dealing out the briefing to the other gathered Marines, looked confident. But his motions indicated otherwise. The three other major Space Marine chapters represented in the auditorium knew the dangers of what was bring told to them. Powerful defenses, in times past, had been overcome by the forces of Chaos. Since then, only strength could have been given to the teeth of this planet.

"There will be three days of orbital bombardment. At the end of which, gracious Brother Knight Sagon of the Space Wolves has volunteered to lead the spearhead offensive through drop pods on City-hive Malnus." The Salamander Chaplain gestured to the ridiculously large Space Wolf, who stood among the ranks of his gray clad brethren.

"Following this, we will have a landing of Marshal Delire, of the Black Templars, and his associated forces. Marshal Delire, will this include your guard class crew?" The auditorium was silent, as all attention shifted to Delire's position. He sat just to the right of the Blessed, keeping silent council to the proceedings. But he had been thusly called upon.

He slowly stood, checking the eyes about him. All stood regular, with intent and interest bare to the viewer. "The crew of the Ivory Fleet are suited for this conflict. I plan to field several thousand of them, in our securing of City-hive Malnus. Their ferocity and dedication to the Blessed is unmatched."

"So be it." The Salamander Marine turned, and indicated with his laser pointer. "Brother Captain Rial, you will command the amalgamate Tank legions about City-Hive Malnus. Every force represented will present their optimum mechanized forces for Brother Captain Rial's inspection."

Rial, a much decorated Salamander Captain, stood and bowed to the congregation. He soon left, along with several other various Marines of the mechanized divisions. There was much to do with those sections, seeing as they would have to be transported to the surface in a much slower fashion than Drop Pods.

"Whirlwind groups 8 and 5 will be dropped here at the earliest possible time. This ridgeline should provide them with adequate cover. Our gunships will provide them with firing data while in the air. Their command channel will be on 88912."

The briefing continued. Laboriously the plan was debated or argued over, once the larger points had been laid out. The difference between a City-hive and a normal Hive was size. A City-hive was still in the process of becoming a true Hive. Usually consisting of large skyscrapers and the beginnings of the adamantine foundations that most hives rested on. But most of this data was ancient in origin. There would be no telling what had changed in the times that Chaos had had to play with it. Being this close to the Maelstrom made him itchy. Almost dirty, so kin was the feeling.


End file.
